Tomorrow Will Be Kinder
by HazelAmes
Summary: Angsty John&Sherlock. The boys have had bad days. Will John be able to comfort both of them? Will it lead to something more? Pre-ship to full on Johnlock. Rated T for future chapters. Bit of profanity in the first chapter.


**A/N: This is my first fanfic, so please read and review! I'm looking forward to your comments and suggestions. I plan on developing this into the full-fledged Johnlock relationship, but if you've got ideas for stuff you'd like to see, let me know. Best Wishes!**

Sherlock sighed and leaned his elbows on the windowsill, lazily watching the smoke he had just exhaled curl away from him. He had just finished lighting his fourth cigarette with the butt of his third, and finally he could feel the effects of the nicotine. He stretched his neck further out the window to blow out another drag. He knew John hated when he smoked, especially in the flat (hence leaning out the window), but he needed it right now. Actually, what he really needed was a quick injection of special solution, but he resisted, for John. If only his damn brain would shut up!

It had been three days since they'd last had a case. John, at least, could pick up shifts at the surgery to keep him occupied. Sherlock, on the other hand, was pent up in the flat like some wild animal in a cage, while his mind stretched and pushed and fractured its own boundaries. Worse still, it left him with loads of time alone with his…_feelings._ He shuddered a bit at the thought, and instead tried to turn his mind to the wonderful feel of the nicotine in his veins as he took another drag of the cigarette. Maybe one more wouldn't hurt…

Sherlock was reaching for another cigarette when he heard John open the door to the flat and shuffle in. By the rustling and slightly strained breathing, Sherlock knew the Doctor was bringing groceries into the kitchen. Which would mean that in a few seconds…

"Sherlock! What have I told you about smoking in the flat? You shouldn't even be smoking at all!"

"I had to, John! I was out of the nicotine patches. And I'm not in the flat! I've been smoking out the window for you!"

John's kind eyes softened as he realized a) that Sherlock was clearly distressed, he could see the crazy shining in his eyes and b) that he had been trying to be good for him. But he kept his voice stern as he said, "Still. When you have to smoke, please just take a walk around the block, or something. The fresh air would probably help you as much as the nicotine." Not to mention the glimpse of sunlight, he thought, as he took in the detective's pale skin and dark under-eye circles.

Sherlock simply nodded, put out the cigarette (he never did get around to having a fifth), and moved out of the kitchen to the sofa. He lied down, mind swirling, and stared pensively at the bullet holes in the wall above his head. He sighed. He reveled in these moments, when the drugs took effect, and everything felt slowed down and sped up at the same time as his mind focused on nothing but the high.

He could hear John babbling away in the kitchen, but he couldn't bring himself to living. Instead, he thought simply of how lucky he was to have the doctor in his life, as a friend, as soul mates. No one made him feel the way John did…

Oh, God. Not this train of thought again. Sherlock rolled over and pressed his face into the couch pillows, trying to stop those thoughts from going further. He tried to refocus his mind on the nicotine, on the smell of the cigarettes and the sweet burn of the smoke on the back of his throat. He casually placed his right hand over his face, inhaling the lingering scent of the cigarettes trapped in the crevices of his fingers.

John walked into the living room, carrying two cups of tea, to see his best mate stretched face down with a hand over his nose and mouth, heaving a sigh every few seconds. He could almost see the cloud of angst that hovered over him. Bloody hell, he'd heard enough moaning and whining at the surgery today; he didn't want to deal with it at home, too.

The doctor cocked his head and briefly considered his options. He sighed, knowing there was only one thing that was going to make them both feel better.

He placed one cup of tea on the table, taking a sip of his own. "Tea, Sherlock," he said, rubbing his eyes with one hand. He needed sleep. Hopefully, this would work. "Sherlock," he repeated, nudging the detective in the rib with his thigh.

Sherlock tilted his head up almost imperceptibly to look up at the doctor through a curly black fringe. Even in his state, Sherlock could see the doctor was tired and stressed. His shoulders were hunched and deep frown lines crossed the doctor's forehead. Sherlock thought how he would love to get up and kiss those frown lines away…Fuck. Sherlock dropped his face back into the depths of the pillow, trying to sink right through it.

"Sherlock," John insisted, refusing to let his friend continue to sulk. "Roll over."

Sherlock looked up at him again, a slightly different look in his eyes now. Wary, yet excited. Still, he drawled, "What, John" in a tone that would hopefully indicate just how much John _didn't_ interest him.

"Roll over," John demanded again. He had since set down his cup of tea and removed his shoes. When he saw Sherlock's look, he said, "Come on, mate. Just do it."

Curiosity piqued, Sherlock rolled over onto his back. He looked up at John, now wondering if he was going to be subjected to some sort of medical examination because John didn't believe it really had been just cigarettes he'd been smoking. John did look rather serious.

"Okay, now scoot over."

"W-What?" Sherlock asked, confusion coming into his eyes.

"I said, scoot over. I want to lay with you."

Sherlock was really confused now. He could feel how elevated his pulse had become. Was he dreaming? Hallucinating?

John, sensing his friend's confusion, hastily added on, "Look, you're in a bad mood, I'm tired and in a bad mood, and I really think that was we need is some cuddling. Platonic cuddling," he added on gruffly.

Sherlock, always a bit unsure when it came to human contact, nodded and scooted over, pressing his back against the back of the sofa. John perched on the edge of the couch, hesitating for a moment before chucking his self-consciousness over his shoulder and stretching out next to Sherlock. He draped a leg over the other man's thigh and nestled his head into the slight incline between Sherlock's armpit and collarbone.

Sherlock inhaled quickly, not quite sure what to do, especially with his arms. He wrapped one arm around John, pulling him closer while simultaneously keeping him from sliding to the floor. He tried several positions with the other. First, he tried patting John's head, but he found his wrist tired quickly; then he tried caressing John's jumper-clad arm, but found that to be a bit too personal, for now; finally, he decided on just keeping it straight on his leg, letting John's body heat warm it.

Eyes closed, John murmured, "Don't worry, Sherlock. There's always at least one awkward arm." His whisper warmed Sherlock's chest, and heart, and he let himself close his eyes and relax.

"We should experiment on finding the place where there isn't an awkward arm."

"Later, Sherlock."

"Of course, John." Sherlock smiled to himself, happy to have procured the promise of more human contact. He was finding that he quite enjoyed it.

With that last happy thought, the two quietly drifted into an impromptu nap.


End file.
